


this beautiful, heart-stopping, breathtaking, life-changing

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Confused Enjolras, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, courfeyrac just wants gavroche to have one nice thing, he is one oblivious cookie, inspired by twelve days of christmas but not really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 19:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13107477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: "It starts with a wonderful idea, and it spirals into chaos, because no good deed goes unpunished and the way to hell is paved with good intentions, so Enjolras isn’t particularly surprised with the mess.He just-He wants to understand, is all.But it starts with the first snow of the year and it starts with a wonderful idea."or, the one where Enjolras is confused, Courfeyrac wants to throw a party, Grantaire gets to spend time with his crush, and the Christmas Spirit is all around.





	this beautiful, heart-stopping, breathtaking, life-changing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I have no excuse except it's 2am.
> 
> I'm sorry for this mess.

 

 

It starts with a wonderful idea, and it spirals into chaos, because no good deed goes unpunished and the way to hell is paved with good intentions, so Enjolras isn’t particularly surprised with the mess.

 

He just-

 

He wants to understand, is all.

 

But it starts with the first snow of the year and it starts with a wonderful idea.

 

***

 

_ Day 1 _

 

It’s snowing outside, and everything looks brighter, and inside the Musain the radio is softly playing some old Christmas song and the air smells faintly of cinnamon.

 

But Christmas is a concept so far away for Enjolras. It’s fading memories of awkward dinners and too much luxury and too much pretend. It’s hypocrisy and frustration and all the things he left behind.

 

And as usual he pays no mind for the holidays, orders his espresso and goes on to study and prepares for his internship. It’s routine, and there’s warm safety in that.

 

And normally it would stay that way, but this year Gavroche and Courfeyrac are bursting through the coffeeshop doors, laughing and giggling, and Enjolras  _ knows  _ he’s never regaining peace until well into the night. 

 

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac throws himself in the seat in front of him, Gavroche standing beside him. The duo smile widely, openly, breathlessly, “you won’t  _ believe  _ the idea we just had!”

 

“Yup,” the boy pops the ‘p’, gesturing excitedly, “it’s the bestest idea ever, chief!”

 

And Enjolras wants to say  _ no _ and  _ don’t drag me into this _ because Courfeyrac and Gavroche together leads to trouble, it always does, it’s their  _ thing _ , but they both have so much hope and confidence in their eyes and the sun in a cloudless sky in their smiles, and no matter what people say, Enjolras isn’t  _ heartless _ . “What is it? Do I need to call a lawyer for you?”

 

Courfeyrac waves him off, pitches his voice low in mocking seriousness, “your lack of faith is disturbing,” he cracks, laughs, “no, really, it’s gonna be awesome. This year, we’re throwing my Annual Christmas Party here in the Musain!”

 

Gavroche applauds, nodding fervently along. Enjolras frowns, “you’ve never thrown a Christmas Party.”

 

“Well, yeah, but this will be the perfect way to start with style!”

 

“Have you told  _ Éponine  _ that?”

 

They all turn to look at the girl behind the counter. She stops cleaning the machine, squints suspiciously at them.

 

“Not yet,  _ but _ ,” Courfeyrac hurries along, “she’ll be totally on board with this. Because Éponine is awesome and knows how to have fun.”

 

“You’re scared of asking her, ain’t you?” Gavroche smirks, “I’ll do it for five bucks.”

 

“Done.” Enjolras watches his friend pull out his wallet and slide a bill to the boy, “and of course I am, your sister is terrifying.”

 

“She’ll be glad to know. Be right back, losers!”

 

Courfeyrac stays smiling until the kid is out of earshot, but as soon as Éponine frowns at her little brother, he turns a desperate pout at Enjolras, “bro, E, my man, buddy, you gotta help me, there’s so much to do, Enj, please?” he moans, “and it’s only 12 days away, I’m  _ so  _ screwed.”

 

“Courf. Why are you doing this?” Enjolras refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose, instead choosing to throw him a  _ look _ , “why are you  _ really  _ doing this?”

 

“What? ‘Cause parties are awesome? ‘Cause it’s Christmas and nothing says Christmas better than irresponsibles amounts of alcohol and bad carols? ‘Cause-  _ fine. _ Look, I’ve ran into Gavroche earlier and man, you should’ve seen the look on his face,” he stares off at the siblings arguing by the counter, “he was looking at this shop, and he was so  _ sad _ , you know? He said their parents never celebrate Christmas. And I thought, hey, if I can help with that- if I can give him a nice Christmas memory, why shouldn’t I?”

 

Enjolras feels a surge of affection, yes, that sounds like Courfeyrac. And he’s right, too. Gavroche deserves better, deserves a happy childhood, his life is going to be hard, no matter how much Courf and Éponine try to shield him. And if they can give him a happy memory, something that feels close enough to family, then, really is no choice at all.

 

“How can I help?”

 

“First of all, we’re going to need everyone’s help.” Courfeyrac isn’t looking him in the eyes, this is a bad sign, “ _ everyone.” _

 

Sure, Enjolras thought as much. There’s no way they can pull this off without all the Amis joining. But why is-  _ oh.  _ “You mean Grantaire.”

 

“Yeah, you know, he’s an art major, and he’s really good, also he’s Éponine’s best friend and he’s one of us, and Enj, I need you to  _ play nice _ ,” he says, like it’s easy, like they’re not volatile elements, a chemical reaction waiting to happen the moment they get close enough, like Enjolras hasn’t already been trying, “no fights, can you do that? Promise me, come on.”

 

But Courfeyrac is looking at him like Enjolras is holding the key for this operation, like it’s all resting on his hands, so Enjolras swallows his apprehension and doubts and the feeling of lead on his bones and says, “okay, I promise.”

 

“Good. Thanks, Enj. I knew I could count on you. Now, I was thinking-”

 

His friend goes on about the preparations and a kind of Christmas Enjolras doesn’t recognize, things he finds foreign and unfamiliar and alien. But he thinks of his promise and the quiet ache blooming somewhere on his chest, and understands nothing at all.

 

***

 

 _Day_ _2_

 

It’s half past three and Grantaire is late.

 

Enjolras has already had three and a half coffees today. Éponine cut him off ten minutes ago. 

 

It’s not a good combination, there’s a headache forming in the back of his head and they have  _ so much  _ to do.

 

Courfeyrac had given them all a list of what to do. Everyone had been responsible for a few things. Like, Combeferre and Enjolras were in charge of the organization, Courf and Marius were in charge of foods and drinks, Bossuet and Jehan were in charge of the music, Joly was in charge of Bossuet, and so on. 

 

Except, Grantaire and Feuilly are responsible for the decorations, and they had agreed to meet at the Musain to take a look around and figure out what to do. And because nothing with them ever goes according to plan, Feuilly had an emergency at work. He wouldn’t be able to meet Grantaire today. 

 

And that, of course, had set off Courfeyrac’s anxiety and suddenly everything had been spiraling out of control and no one else would be able to make it today in Feuilly’s place and so, against his better judgement and common sense, Enjolras had agreed to come instead. 

 

_ It couldn’t be so bad, right? _ He had told himself. 

 

It’s 3:45 when Grantaire finally arrives. 

 

He collapses in the empty seat with a dramatic groan, almost dislodging the cup of coffee on the table and Enjolras already feels his blood boiling.  _ Great. _

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Apollo,” Grantaire smiles sheepishly, “traffic was a bitch.”

 

“You take the subway.”

 

“Talk about those jams, right?”

 

The headache at the back of his head flares. Enjolras sighs, “just, let’s start, okay?”

 

“Aye, aye, captain,” he salutes, “what’s on the table for today?”

 

“What do you me-” a deep breath, “Grantaire. You’re the art major. You do your thing. I’m just here supervising and filling in for Feuilly.”

 

Something flickered in his eyes, but Enjolras couldn’t identify, it was gone as suddenly as it came. But there’s a new tension in the air, something heavy and uncomfortable and it makes his skin itch and crawl, turns his stomach and forces words to tumble out of his mouth, “I mean, I know nothing about this stuff, so. Hm. Do what you have to do, and I’ll just, pass along to Feuilly?”

 

It’s comforting to see Grantaire looks as out of it as he is, “yeah, sure? Cool, cool. So. I’m gonna take a look around? See what we have to work with?”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

Grantaire smiles tentatively, and Enjolras thinks the atmosphere feels a lot better than before; something unfurls in his chest, warm and light and golden.

 

He spends the afternoon watching him buzzing from corner to corner, eyes lighting up as he comments on ideas of guirlandes and fairy lights and colors and patterns, and joining in once in awhile to veto the too outrageous or too expensive or too fire hazard.

 

It’s not how he expected his day to go, there’s still a pile of things he’d rather be doing, but he guesses there’s worst ways to spend his time.

 

***

 

_ Day 3 _

 

You see, it’s not like he hates Grantaire.

 

He doesn’t. Not at all.

 

He finds him annoying and frustrating and confusing, and sure, he can see why all the Amis seem to think he does hate him, but  _ he doesn’t. _

 

_ ( everyone except Combeferre, because Combeferre has been his friend since forever, and he knows Enjolras better than Enjolras knows himself. _

 

_ So Combeferre doesn’t laugh when he says he doesn’t hate Grantaire, but sometimes he gives him these looks, and Enjolras thinks he should know what they mean, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and it leaves him confused and frustrated and- ) _

 

***

 

_ Day 4 _

 

Maybe the thing is, he doesn’t know how to act around him.

 

The others, they’re easy to navigate. He knows why they’re here, he knows who he is for them.

 

It’s easy.

 

But Grantaire, he doesn’t know why he’s there at all. He appeared one day, half drunk and loud and obnoxious, tearing down every argument Enjolras had voiced and mocking every cause under the sun.

 

And then, Enjolras had known how to be. He pushed back, vicious and angry and righteous. He had seen the glint in his eyes, seen the storm brewing in the dark green, and felt the adrenaline thrumming underneath his own skin. 

 

That had been easy.

 

But then Grantaire came back the next night, all smirks and shining eyes, and Enjolras hadn’t known what to make of him.

 

Grantaire didn’t believe in anything at all, yet he carved a spot for himself, a corner in their table and a place in their family.

 

He had fit in so easily, it was as if he should’ve been there all along. 

 

And Enjolras-

 

He carried on doing the only thing he knew; when Grantaire pushed, he pushed back, claws and tooth and nails.

 

***

 

_ Day 5 _

 

He doesn't know why he’s thinking about Grantaire so much these days.

 

Maybe it’s the promise he made to Courfeyrac.

 

_ ( or it’s the way his face lit up with the idea of Christmas and lights and carols and colors; everything painted in the back of his eyelids so everytime he closes his eyes, it’s there, it’s there and he can’t  stop thinking about it and- ) _

 

***

 

_ Day 6 _

 

Perhaps it’s all about physics.

 

Newton’s Third Law of Motion says for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.

 

And his Law of Universal Gravitation states a particle attracts every other particle in the universe.

 

So yeah, maybe, in the end, it’s all about physics.

 

***

 

_ Day 7 _

 

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

 

They are sitting in a table at the Musain again, they’re all always there, these days, doing what they can to help Courfeyrac’s holiday crusade. It’s all coming together, slowly but surely taking shape.

 

Combeferre looks up from the spreadsheet they had been filling, eyebrows raised, a clinical look in his eyes searching for symptoms, “you seem- Let’s go with tired.”

 

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” Enjolras confesses, “I think- well, I can’t stop thinking, actually.”

 

“Oh, and is that part of your,” he hesitates, “illness?”

 

“Sort of? I don't know. I just. I feel funny.”

 

“Okay. What are you feeling?”

 

Enjolras blinks, frowns, “it’s probably a stomach bug. It mostly feels weird sometimes. Like.” He struggles to find a way to describe the feeling of sinking and soaring and fluttering, all at the same time, “I feel. It’s. It’s weird. It’s not nausea. It’s this  _ fluttering  _ and. And sometimes it feels like I can’t quite breathe. It’s,” he half shrugs, “weird.”

 

Combeferre stays silent for a second, hands folded on the table. He regards Enjolras steadily, because Combeferre is nothing if not constant, but it under his gaze, Enjolras squirms. Finally, he sighs, cleans his glasses with his shirt, says, “and when exactly does it happen?”

 

The question gives him pause. Enjolras tries thinking back at all the times he felt tissue turning into lead into silver into gold. “I had been thinking about-  _ oh _ . I had been thinking about Grantaire.”

 

There’s a relieved smile in his friend’s face, like he had been working himself up for a lecture but wouldn’t need to deliver anymore. It’s a smile that says  _ congratulations  _ and  _ you figured it out. “ _ So you know what’s happening?”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras hums pleasantly, “Grantaire is giving me stress induced gastritis.”

 

Combeferre groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, an exasperated frown on his face. Enjolras doesn’t understand,  _ he figured it out- _

 

“Enjolras. You’re not sick.”

 

“But-”

 

“No. Just don’t.”

 

“Can we go back to this mess of a party?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

***

 

_ Day 8 _

 

“Help me, Enj-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope!”

 

Grantaire calls from outside his apartment and Enjolras thinks he might have an aneurysm. It’s not even 8 in the morning yet and he’s banging on his door and  _ jesus christ _ , how many gods have Enjolras managed to piss off in his previous life to deserve this? 

 

Somehow, Enjolras got dragged into covering for Feuilly while the ginger works an extra shift again. He’s not sure how this happens, but it’s almost supernatural how silent the group chat goes when Feuilly asks. 

 

Enjolras smells Courfeyrac all over it, but it’s almost Christmas and they didn’t kill each other the last time, so maybe it’s not so bad.

 

Except, it’s half past seven and Grantaire is knocking on his door while doing terrible Leia impressions, and his stomach is feeling funny again but Combeferre told him it’s not gastritis. 

 

He opens the door.

 

Grantaire almost falls in, barely catching himself in time to lean in the doorway. His hair is tousled by the wind and freckled with snow, cheeks red from the cold and green eyes dancing with amusement and lightning and energy. And Enjolras feels lilies and daisies and dandelions blooming on his lungs and ivy covering his ribcage; spring is blossoming on his chest and when he tries to speak, daffodils choke on his throat.

 

He doesn’t understand what’s going on or what it means, but meanwhile he drowns on rosewater and smiles through his teeth.

 

***

 

_ Day 9 _

 

Enjolras has an itching under his skin. 

 

A restlessness that tells him he’s missing something right in front of him.

 

It’s a translation of Combeferre’s knowing looks and put upon sighs. It’s Grantaire coming back each night. It’s the way his bones ache and long and call for something without a name.

 

Or perhaps, he just doesn’t know the name yet.

 

Maybe if he figures out what it is behind this siren’s call, then maybe he’ll find the end of this maze.

 

For now, all he knows is that at the heart of this labyrinth is Grantaire.

 

_ ( does that make him the Minotaur or Theseus? Or maybe Daedalus, building the stone walls from scratch? ) _

 

_ ( why is it that they always forget Ariadne?) _

 

***

 

_ Day 10 _

 

_ Have you figured it out yet?  _ Combeferre asks,  _ do you see it now? _

 

***

 

_ Day 11 _

 

Courfeyrac is running around like a child on a toy store and whoever gave him that much candy should’ve been the one stuck in babysitting duty.

 

And it’s not like they don’t have things to do, everyone else is busy wrapping things up, the party is tomorrow and everything needs to be perfect. But Courfeyrac is buzzing with too much energy and no one in their right mind would let him ride that sugar high on his own.

 

“Enjolras. Enj. Buddy. Bro. Pal. My man. Dude. The party is gonna be so awesome. So awesome. Like.  _ So awesome. _ ”

 

“Yes,” he sighs, taking a sip of his water, “I’m sure it will.”

 

“Ooh, right, and I should thank you  _ so much _ , for keeping your promise, I know it’s hard for you guys not to argue, because that’s all you guys do. Like. Is it your way of flirting? Or pushing him away? Because dude it’s been like, two years, he’s not going away. Grantaire is a stubborn son of a bitch, you gotta accept that.”

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Oh come  _ on _ , you can’t be  _ that  _ oblivious! I mean, you did miss me and Combeferre getting together- oh shit, the bet, Bahorel’s gonna kill me and-”

 

“Courfeyrac, you’re not making any sense, I got less than a half of what you said-”

 

“Hey, is everything good here?” Grantaire pokes his head inside the backroom. “I heard Enjolras curse. That’s a dollar in the swear jar, by the way.”

 

He enters the room carrying a tray, and Enjolras watches as he walks carefully, afraid of dropping one of the tree shaped cookies. “Bahorel made these, and Bossuet did the icing. Under Joly’s supervising, of course.” He offers them the tray, beams, “and you both get to be our guinea pigs!”

 

The cookies taste like heaven, and the way Grantaire smiles, genuine and delighted, looks like something holy.

 

It distracts Enjolras enough that he doesn’t even complain Courfeyrac is eating sugar again.

 

***

 

_ Day 12 _

 

The Musain looks like something out of a Christmas movie.

 

They really did a good job with this.

 

Invitations were not only for the Amis, the coffee shop opened its doors for all passer bys, anyone without a home to spend the Eve, so the place is filled with a patchwork family of strangers.

 

And Gavroche is jumping up and down, taking in all the lights and colors and delights, joy written in every line of his face; that is enough to make it worth it.

 

Everything is perfect, and Enjolras is feeling warm and content and so unbearably fond. He understands now what Courfeyrac meant by Christmas memories.

 

This is the kind of moment he wants to treasure forever.

 

And it’s not midnight yet, so maybe there’s still time for one last Christmas miracle, because suddenly there’s someone beside him, saying  _ hey _ , low and giddy and shy.

 

It’s Grantaire, because of course it’s Grantaire. Enjolras turns to face him, and falls down the rabbit hole. He looks so good,  _ so good _ , with the fairy lights reflecting off his skin in a myriad of colors, eyes shining with hope and happiness and they are an ocean in a storm dragging him under. Enjolras tastes salt water in his lungs and reaches to touch, he needs proof this man in front of him in real, it’s not just ether and light and ichor.

 

And Grantaire shivers under his touch, warm and real and solid, while Enjolras thinks of the first night he met him, and the past weeks, and how thankful he is that Grantaire keeps coming back. 

 

Enjolras figures it out, and wonders how he had missed it sooner. It makes sense in the way puzzles do, he supposes, only after you finish putting it together.

 

So, he understands now, and tugging him down until their lips meet is the only logical thing to do.

 

And kissing Grantaire is like soaring and falling and flying, all at once. It’s sugar and cinnamon and spice. It’s a binary system collapsing in itself. It’s everything and nothing and anything at all.

 

“We’re not under the mistletoe,” Grantaire says, awestruck and hesitant to believe, tentative and unsure, and Enjolras wants to kiss him again, settles for saying, “I know. I want to kiss you on Christmas and every other day.”

 

Grantaire makes a choked sound, pained and joyous and disbelieving, but his hands are treading gold locks, and he’s not pulling away, “don’t do this if you don’t- I can’t just. Enjolras,  _ I love you _ , I’ve been in love with you for so long, I don’t know how  _ not  _ to be.”

 

Turning into lead, into silver, into gold.

 

“I can’t tell you when, or why, or how. But I can tell you this, I love you now. And I want to know you to the bones and love you to the marrow, if you let me.”

 

They kiss under fairy lights and to soft Christmas songs; they dance in moonlight and hope for a future written among the stars.

  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you likes it leave a kudo or a comment, it makes my day.
> 
> Or come talk to me on [my tumblr](wearealltalesintheend.tumblr.com).


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